


I Love You (For Whatever It's Worth)

by InMediasRes



Series: String of Fate [10]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians), Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Eliot Waugh, Christmas Fluff, Crying During Sex, Everybody Lives, Exhibitionism, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of Mike McCormick, Mentions of Therapy, POV Eliot Waugh, Peaches and Plums (The Magicians), Rimming, Sort Of, Top Quentin Coldwater, but it's blink and you miss it, mentions of rehab
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29414181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InMediasRes/pseuds/InMediasRes
Summary: Eliot tells Quentin about Mike in the semi-darkness of his room, and they exchange Christmas gifts.Companion piece to The Worst Thing You Ever Heard (I Love You)
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: String of Fate [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076294
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	I Love You (For Whatever It's Worth)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello! So I was originally going to have this piece be just Eliot & Q having a late night talk and then exchanging gifts, but then... They both said otherwise so. What was I supposed to do?
> 
> It is my second time writing smut for these two (and ever), and honestly, it's probably even sweeter than their first time, and I didn't even know that was possible. So um, I hope it was at least somewhat decent? I'm still not very confident writing in the explicit rating but I hope to get to a level where I'm more comfortable.
> 
> Title taken from Cruel Summer by Taylor Swift.

* * *

_And I scream, "For whatever it's worth,_

_I love you, ain't that the worst thing_

_you ever heard?"_

_-_ 'Cruel Summer', Taylor Swift

* * *

“So. Christmas miracle, huh?”

Eliot smiles into Quentin’s hair, breathing in his citrus-scented shampoo as he pulls him in closer to his side on the bed. They’d both had a shower (separately–Eliot had _class_ , and Quentin’s father was in the house) after their late night of dinner and wine drinking and more Christmas films. Margo was camping out in Julia’s room across the hall (and learning that Julia lived with the Coldwaters was both a surprise and not), and well. It was only natural that Eliot was camping out in Quentin’s room (he may have gotten a little choked up at _Ted_ suggesting it in the first place, but no one needed to know).

“Well, um. Julia had been spamming me about coming to visit? And I was going to wait until you were back from the holidays, but–” Eliot gives a shrug, not large enough to jostle Quentin’s head on his chest. “–I woke up this morning with the sudden need to talk to you.”

Quentin’s quiet for a few moments before he shifts on the bed, rolling over onto his stomach so he can look at Eliot, a smile playing on his lips. Eliot has to catch his breath-Quentin is just so beautiful like this; so soft and pliant, brown eyes tender in the gentle glow of his bedside lamp that Eliot has to duck down to kiss him. He keeps it chaste, just a quick peck really, before he pulls back.

“You’re such a sap, you know that?” Quentin teases, placing a kiss to the corner of Eliot’s mouth.

Eliot gently twists the end of Quentin’s hair with his fingers, and he knows his smile has turned shy, a rare feat indeed but of course only Quentin can tear down his walls like this. “Q, there’s–there’s something I need to tell you. Something you should know.”

He sees Quentin’s brows furrowing out of the corner of his eyes more than anything, because he can’t look at Quentin for this. He won’t be able to get the words out if he does–Q’s eyes are too bright, too earnest for a talk like this and Eliot’s barely holding his heart together as it is. He breathes in, lets his hand fall from Quentin’s hair as he blinks up at the patterned ceiling instead, and then exhales slowly.

“So. I had this friend, right. A couple of years ago. About half a year after I met Margo, and went to rehab–all of that.” Eliot waves a hand dismissively, but he continues to blink up at the ceiling.

And blink, and blink, and blink.

Quentin stays silent as Eliot tries to gather his thoughts, and he’s truly grateful that he’s being given the space to think, to find the right words to say what he needs to say because–Eliot really struggles with that. When it comes to the heavy stuff, Eliot’s instinctual response is to lash out; to throw out the words he knows will hurt the most before they could hurt him, and then slam and bolt the door so they could never retaliate. But he can’t do that with Quentin–doesn’t want to. He never wants to hurt him again.

“So, ah, this friend, he. Well, he got into this terrible relationship, you know. Like, it–it was bad. Really bad. And um. It took him a really long time to see it for what it was and–”

“Jesus, El–”

Eliot holds up a hand to stop whatever words were going to spill out with a whispered, “Please.” Small, fractured, straining to hold it together.

Quentin jerks his head in a nod before shuffling down the bed a little to place a light kiss on his shoulder. Eliot clears his throat, still staring up–always, always staring up for this topic.

“So, this friend. He–he stopped being himself, you know? He was losing his interests, his hobbies, he almost lost his best friend–” Eliot’s breath hitches with the thought of _Bambi_ drumming through his head as he continues to wade through his words, tongue thick and heavy with guilt. “–and he was losing himself. And it took him a really long time to see that, because. Because he was in love, you know?”–a wet laugh–“And. And when he did manage to dump the asshole, not without some help, it took a really, _really_ long time for him to be back in a place where he had been before. All of that.”

Quentin’s rubbing small circles into his chest, and it’s calming, grounding. It lets Eliot finish what he needs to say.

“Um, so–so after, he kind of. Shut himself off from feelings because–well, they scared him. He didn’t want to ever feel that useless, or weak, again. He didn’t want to be _hurt_ again, so. So he would run. Because that’s all he knew how to do–something he learned from his just-as-shitty childhood.”

The silence that follows resounds in the room, in the space between, stretching and stretching, and Eliot’s worried that he maybe should have left this conversation for the light of day but–it was easier to say in the dark. The dark had this safety about it; like if he said it in the absence of light, it would be swallowed up, held at bay, unable to blemish the dawn.

The dark would hold his secrets.

Quentin kisses his shoulder again, and then his collarbone, and then over his heart, which jumps in response, before he kneels up to catch Eliot’s eyes. “Eliot. You are not useless, or. Or _weak_. You know that right? You are the most kind, thoughtful, _amazing_ person I have ever had the pleasure of knowing, and fuck anyone who tries to take advantage of that. Actually, I hope you know that anyone who tries doesn’t deserve you. Like, at all. Just, you know, putting that out there.”

Eliot laughs, still fragile but with the hope that accompanies a blossoming spring. “That’s what Sheila said too.”

“Sheila?” Quentin’s brow rises, just a quick tick really, and Eliot would have missed it if he hadn’t already been looking at him.

“My uh. My therapist.” His eyes cut to the side, shy, nervous, even after everything he’s just told Q. “I–I started seeing her. The week after… Well, you know.” He gulps down the lump in his throat. “I figured I had to get my shit together if I ever wanted to come talk to you. About everything. So um. Surprise, I guess?”

There’s another silence, extending so long that Eliot starts to feel panicky. Oh god, had he messed up again? So soon? Was he meant to tell Quentin about Sheila? Was he supposed to tell him e _arlier?_ Eliot didn’t have any precedent for this kind of thing–when would it have been a good time to slip in that he was seeing a therapist?

“ _God_ , I love you, Eliot Waugh,” Quentin finally breathes out, and Eliot’s wide eyes jump back to Q’s in disbelief.

And Quentin’s just _looking_ at him, like. Like he is the centre of the universe; like Quentin had been a tiny speck in a black hole and Eliot was the Big Bang that propelled him into existence, and that _nothing else_ mattered except him and Q, together in this wide space with a path of stars connecting them into a constellation. And he kisses Eliot sweetly, with all the love and adoration he’s unafraid to express, and it’s so overwhelming that it steals his breath away while simultaneously giving him air, and he’s coming alive under Quentin’s lips.

He whines quietly, gripping at Q’s shoulders to try and keep him close when he pulls away slightly with a whispered, “What do you want? I’ll give you anything,” against his ear.

“I want–please Q–I want you to make love to me?” And it comes out as a question unintentionally: cautious, bashful.

And Quentin pulls back further, surprise filling his eyes, as he searches Eliot’s face because. Because it’s not often Eliot is willing to bottom; Mike had never wanted to, and the thought of bottoming again after Mike had always made sourness curdle in his gut, but–Eliot wanted this with Q. It was different with Quentin, he can see that now; being on top wasn’t about being in control or power like Mike had turned it into–it was about trust. He trusts Q implicitly, explicitly, in all the ways that matter. He trusts Q to see him in such a vulnerable position and to not take advantage, so he rests a hand on the back of Quentin’s neck and pulls him down into a desperate kiss.

_Please, I want this. With you. Will you?_

Quentin kisses him back with all the fervour of a drowning man: _of course El, anything for you._

Eliot loses himself in the kiss that he doesn’t even notice Quentin sliding both their boxers off and reaching over into his nightstand for a condom and some lube; Quentin tastes like icing and caramel with a hint of red wine from before, sugary sweet and intoxicating, and Eliot moans low into his mouth as he chases that taste with his tongue.

He only breaks apart to gasp sharply when Quentin takes them both into his slick hand, slowly coaxing them to hardness, and it feels so good that Eliot has to close his eyes and let it consume him, lets the syrupy feeling of pleasure roll through him until he’s cocooned in it. Quentin’s leaving a trail of kisses down his neck and chest, and Eliot feels each one like a blazing comet–hot and sparking, lighting him up from the inside with love and wonder for this man that he gets to have, to hold, to _keep_.

“El. El, can I taste you?”

“Yes. Fuck, yes, anything you want,” he manages to pant out, opening his eyes to drink in the sight of Q’s face; eyes blown wide, skin taking on that light red flush, lips partly open and wet from their kiss.

Quentin smiles, sun-bright, as he slides down on the bed to give him kitten licks along his length and then nuzzles at his balls. Eliot remembers they have to be quiet, that it’s past midnight and _Quentin’s dad is in the house, god,_ but he doesn’t expect Quentin to throw his legs over his shoulder and part his cheeks so he could immediately dive in with his tongue. A loud moan leaves his lips before Eliot can stop it, and he has to throw a hand up to bite on so no more could slip out, a mantra of _fuckfuckfuck_ spinning in his head.

But the hallway light doesn’t come on under the gap of Quentin’s bedroom door and no knock sounds, so Eliot thinks he got away with it and the sudden knot in his chest loosens and he’s grinning down at Quentin, who had briefly stopped his ministrations to smirk up at him, _the little shit_.

“Got a little kink for exhibitionism there, Q?” He teases quietly, voice a little rough.

Quentin hums, “No, just one for you.”

And Eliot–blinks because _holy shit you cannot just say stuff like that Quentin_ , and he thinks he’s somehow fallen in love even more. But Quentin’s smirk goes soft and he kisses the inside of his thigh before licking over his hole again, and Eliot’s thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind and all he can do is thump his head back onto his pillow; his hips start moving of their own accord, little thrusts back onto Quentin’s tongue that’s exploring inside as his fingers spread him wider in the effort to _get deeper_ and _holy hell_ he thinks he might combust–he’s using Quentin’s pillow to bite into to try and muffle the moans fighting to tumble out.

But then Quentin’s gently inserting a slippery finger as his tongue retreats to lick around his hole, giving shallow thrusts so he can get used to the intrusion, twisting and probing, and Eliot’s trembling with the effort to keep as quiet as possible, impossibly turned on even more; he slides a hand across his own chest to pinch at his nipples, shuddering at the sparks that fan out as Quentin slides in a second, and then a third finger, stroking over his prostate which makes Eliot’s hips jump and let out a whispered curse.

He props himself up with one elbow as he leaves his nipples to twine his hand into Quentin’s hair, tugging lightly but firmly enough to get his attention, and Quentin moves with his hand until he can see his eyes again. “Q–fuck–need you inside. Please?”

And Quentin’s nodding frantically in agreement, whispering “Want you so much,” as he trails another blaze of comets up Eliot’s thigh with his lips before placing a kiss on the head of his cock, leaving Eliot fisting the sheets and gasping as he tries to stave off the building orgasm, feeling like Icarus, and Quentin his sun.

He blinks hard, tossing his head to get rid of the curls falling into his eyes and becomes aware of Quentin reaching for the condom; without his permission, his hand flies out to catch his wrist, stopping him from ripping the packet open.

“I’m clean,” he mumbles, feeling his face bloom red in shyness and embarrassment in equal measure. “Want to feel you.” Quieter, uncertain; he can’t quite meet Quentin’s gaze but he feels the weight of it–hot and heavy, heating him up from the inside down to his toes, but also wrapping around him like a safety blanket.

“Fuck, El. _How_ –are you this real?” Quentin breathes out, eyes bright, before he dives in for a fierce kiss and Eliot keens into it, but Quentin swallows it down before it can breach the bubble they’ve made for themselves in this space. They exchange murmured ‘ _I love you’s_ like a secret _,_ and Eliot’s heart feels so full that he’s not sure he can keep it in his chest.

“How do you want it?” Quentin asks quietly, and Eliot huffs a laugh as he arches up to kiss his chin.

“Like this. Want to see you,” is his reply.

A sliver of concern fills Q’s eyes as they roam over his face. “Are you sure? I know it’s been a while–” but Eliot’s already nodding.

“Yes. Yes. Need you like this. He always–” swallows nervously, eyes shifting to the side before meeting Q’s again. “He always did it from behind. I want to see _you_.”

Understanding chases away the concern in Quentin and he leans down for another kiss, softer this time, and Eliot feels himself splintering apart with the _need_ and the _want_ and the _love_ pouring out of Quentin and into him. And Eliot kisses back with everything he has, hoping to convey everything he feels that he hasn’t been able to find the words to articulate yet.

Then they’re pulling apart just slightly but still close enough to share breaths, and Quentin’s shucking his legs up around his waist so he can line himself up. Then he’s slowly pushing in, and Eliot chokes on a breath– _God_ , it really has been a long time–but he remembers to relax as Quentin leaves butterfly kisses all over his face, giving Eliot a moment to learn how to breathe again and adjust to the invasion thicker than Q’s three fingers.

He exhales slowly, aware of Quentin brushing the hair plastered to his sweaty forehead away, and then breathes out, “I’m good. You can move.”

Quentin kisses his nose and then his cheek, burying his face into the line of Eliot’s neck to suck at the skin there as he begins to slowly roll his hips, punching short gasps out of Eliot as Quentin makes love to him so gently, like he’s the most precious thing in the universe. It’s the most tender sex he can ever remember having, and it leaves Eliot feeling so raw and sensitive that he can feel tears pricking his eyes but he blinks them away, turning his face into Quentin’s hair, nuzzling at his ear before licking a stripe along it.

Quentin’s whispering sweet nothings into his neck as he sucks a hickey right on his pulse point, and Eliot whines low in his throat, wrapping his arms around Q’s neck to keep him close. His heart’s beating a staccato rhythm, fast and out of sync with Quentin’s slow thrusts, and he can feel himself gradually reaching that crest of pleasure.

“Q–shit, shit–not gonna last–” he nips at that spot just behind Quentin’s ear, shivers at the growl that leaves his mouth. “–love you, love you, love you,” he whimpers like a mantra, unable to say anything more coherent but knowing he needed to let him know.

“I got you. I got you, El,” Quentin mumbles, still mouthing at his neck. “You’re beautiful like this–” and Eliot flushes and squirms at the compliment, still not knowing how to take them even from Q, “–want to see you come like this, on my dick. Want to see you let go.”

Quentin captures his mouth in the sweetest kiss as he wraps a hand around Eliot’s cock to stroke him in time with his thrusting. Eliot throws his head back, only just barely containing his moans, as his heart pounds with _QuentinQuentinQuentin_. And then Q adds a twist to his wrist on the upstroke and a swipe on the tip with his thumb, coupled with a change in angle that lets him hit Eliot’s prostate with every slow plunge in, and Eliot is swept out to sea on the tidal wave of pleasure, his brain short circuiting–he’s only dimly aware that Quentin’s kissing him again in the effort to muffle his sob as he comes, clenching tightly around Q and pulling him along too as he shatters into fragments.

He’s not sure how long they lie there, but he slowly becomes alert to Quentin tracking kisses all over his face, murmuring a quiet _I love you_ for each kiss he leaves behind, like if he does it enough times it will sink into Eliot’s skin–and with each declaration and kiss, he slowly pieces Eliot back together again bit by bit. He places one last kiss on his chest, right above his heart, and Eliot feels it like a brand; warmth seeps into him from that spot, reaching all of his oversensitive nerves and making him shiver, and he doesn’t realise the tears from earlier have made another appearance until he feels them leave wet trails into his hair.

Quentin–his sweet, attentive Quentin–notices of course, as much as Eliot wishes he hadn’t, but he doesn’t say anything; he only shifts back upwards to kiss the tears away, stroking his curls away from his cooling forehead. And Eliot feels–too delicate, too fragile, still too raw from his confession earlier and their love making, and. God, he just can’t stop the tears. He raises both his hands to press the heels into his eyes, swiping at the tears leaking out.

“Hey now, El. _Baby._ Please don’t,” a gentle touch on his wrists, pulling his hands away, until he’s staring up into hazel eyes, warm from the glow of Quentin’s lamp.

“I’m sorry I–I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying,” Eliot whispers, breath hitching as he stares at the love of his life.

Quentin smiles, slow and honeyed, as he wipes the rest of Eliot’s tears away and whispers, “Was it too much?”

Eliot nods, stills, then shakes his head, brow creasing in slight confusion. “I don’t… I’m not sure. I don’t think so. I just. I think I’m just overwhelmed. By uh, by earlier and. You know,” he shrugs, trying to go for casual but he doesn’t think he quite manages it. His heart continues to beat out _QuentinQuentinQuentin_ , though quieter now that he's had a moment to come down from the height of pleasure.

Quentin hums as he settles down to lay his head on his chest, ear right above his heart; Eliot wonders if he can hear it splutter before it restarts erratically. They lay in silence for a while, Eliot running his hand through Quentin’s hair and Quentin tracing patterns onto his chest.

“I love you, you know,” Eliot finally says quietly into the night, heart steadier than it had been before.

Quentin traces a cheesy heart on his chest. “I know. I love you too.”

Eliot smiles up at the ceiling as he continues to play with Quentin’s hair, braiding it and undoing it and then braiding it again. Quentin gives a contented sigh.

“I um–I also have your Christmas present.”

Quentin sits up so fast that he almost makes Eliot pull his hair out, tangled as they were in his fingers.

“What? You letting me have you wasn’t a gift enough?”

Eliot can feel his ears burn red but he gives Q a seductive look. “I can give you another round and you can consider that your present instead?”

Quentin swats at him and he grins in reply, shamelessly getting out of bed in all his nakedness to get to his suitcase. He feels Quentin tracking his movements and he may have given his ass a little wiggle as he bends down to look for the carefully wrapped present. He bites back a smile at the groan he hears from the bed and the sound of a body flopping back onto the mattress.

When he’s seated back on the bed, legs crossed and the duvet across his lap to offer fake modesty, Eliot feels shy about the present but he hands it over anyway. Quentin leans over for a quick kiss before he starts unwrapping it, and Eliot plays with a loose thread so he doesn’t have to see if Q is disappointed with his gift.

“ _Eliot_ ,” Quentin breathes, and Eliot finally looks up–

–and Quentin’s running careful fingers over the circular stained glass art in amazement, eyes wide and bright with wonder, smile playing at his lips.

“Is that–”

“Us. At Arielle’s Mosaic.”

“How?”

“I know a friend,” Eliot teases, briefly making a mental note to send Arielle a gift basket for her time the last couple of weeks to help him finish it.

Quentin grins at him. “I love it. I love _you_. Thank you for this.” He leans in for another kiss, languid and full of gratitude.

When they break apart, Quentin carefully wraps the paper back around it and sets it on his nightstand out of the way before he reaches under his bed to also pull out a gift wrapped in silver paper. He chews his lip as he offers it out to Eliot, who takes it gently from his grasp, glowing with the knowledge that Quentin had gotten him a gift without even knowing if Eliot was going to come back at all. He unwraps it just as carefully as Q had unwrapped his, and stares down at it in delight.

It’s a vintage box, deep cherry brown in colour, with delicate pink and red roses painted on the lid. It’s smooth and silky to the touch, and when Eliot opens it, musical notes tinkle out as the couple in the middle dance their pas de deux–Quentin had gotten him a vintage Swan Lake music box.

“Q, I–This must have cost a fortune.” He croaks, trying to swallow the lump in his throat as he watches the couple dance.

Quentin shuffles so he’s sitting beside him on the bed, also looking at the couple dance in time to the music, but Eliot can see his sheepish shrug in the mirror on the underside of the lid. “Um. I actually got it in a garage sale, and uh. Touched it up a little bit.” He bites his lip, reaching out to run a finger along the dark red velvet inside. “It reminded me of you,” he says softly, meeting Eliot’s eyes in the mirror.

Eliot cautiously shuts the lid and lays the box back under Quentin’s bed so it can’t get damaged or be tripped over in the morning, before he pulls Q in for a tender kiss, drawing it out for as long as they don’t need to breathe. He pours his feelings into it–his amazing, sparkling love for the man before him, his gratefulness, the sorrow at having broken his heart–and doesn’t pull away until they’re both gasping for air.

“Jesus, I love you, and I’m sorry I ever said otherwise.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I understand. I know.”

Eliot can feel the tears rising again and he rubs at his eyes before they can fall, and Quentin smiles but says nothing, instead pulling them both to lie on the bed and draws the duvet up over them. And they both immediately roll to face each other, wrapping an arm around the other’s waist; Quentin tucks his head into the spot under Eliot’s chin and Eliot drops a kiss to his hair before they both snuggle in so there’s no space between them; Eliot reaches over to flick Q's lamp off, and then they both close their eyes.

Just before he lets the siren call of sleep pull him under, Eliot thinks of the music box under the bed, and marvels at the way Quentin can simultaneously break him apart and coax him back together again; how he comes alive under his touch, whole again in a way he hadn’t been before.

He drifts off to sleep with Quentin in his arms and the cracks in his heart from past mistakes slowly mending.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun Fact #1: Troye Sivan's 'Bloom' came on while I started writing the smut, and I full on laughed because it was perfect timing. Really, I recommend listening to it.
> 
> Fun Fact #2: Bottom Eliot was actually very, very fun to write. I may have to revisit.
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


End file.
